“Picture whom?” asked Stabb.
“Why, the Lady of the Grange, to be sure——”
“Tut, tut, who’s thinking of the woman?—If there is a woman at all.”
“I am thinking of the woman, Cromlech, and I’ve a perfect right to think of her. At least, if not of that woman, of a woman—whose like I’ve never met.”
“She must be of an unusual type,” opined Stabb with a reflective smile.
“She is, Cromlech. Shall I describe her?”
“I expect you must.”
“Yes, at this moment—with the evening just this colour—and the Grange down there—and the sea, Cromlech, so remarkably large, I’m afraid I must. She is, of course, tall and slender; she has, of course, a rippling laugh; her eyes are, of course, deep and dreamy, yet lighting to a sparkle when one challenges. All this may be presupposed. It’s her tint, Cromlech, her colour—that’s what’s in my mind to-night; that, you will find, is her most distinguishing, her most wonderful characteristic.”
“That’s just what the Vicar told Coltson! At least he said that the Marchesa had a most extraordinary complexion.” Wilbraham had got something out at last.
“Roger, you bring me back to earth. You substitute the Vicar’s impression for my imagination. Is that kind?”